


The Second Coming

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [52]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: It's a beautiful Sunday, Aramis' leg is still broken, and all Porthos wants is to spend a day in peace and quiet. Apparently that's too much to ask for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Porthos is lying on the couch on a Sunday morning shortly after breakfast, peacefully minding his own business. He has a book in his hand and a cat on his belly, and is wearing his favourite pair of dragon socks, a cuddly sweater, and a pair of old, threadbare jeans.

They had an early bout of snow a few days ago, followed by sub-zero temperatures that preserved the glittering whiteness on the autumnal tree tops all over the city. It’s beautiful, sky blue and endless outside the windows overlooking the park, and Porthos isn’t going to move an inch today. Well, maybe a few, just not out the door. Instead he’s going to be as comfy as possible, and snuggle his boys. If they let him.

Athos is always a wild card in that regard, and Aramis was adamant about showering alone this morning, which is unusual, but not altogether unheard of. He has sensitive skin, and it neither likes the cold, nor is it particularly partial to dry heater air. Porthos generously assumed he just wanted to be alone with himself and his skin for once.

Maybe Aramis should share skincare tips with Athos, who is comparably delicate. Even if they don’t help each other out, Porthos has promised himself that he’d at least try to be less overprotective in the future. Let them unfold their wings, so to speak. He has enough children as it is.

Aramis has gotten rather adept at handling his crutches, which is good - he rarely bumps into things anymore. So Porthos trusted him to take care of himself in the bathroom. Which was a mistake, apparently, as he realizes when Aramis hobbles around the corner, wearing a pair of sweatpants and remarkably little else. Especially around the top.

Over by the kitchen unit, Athos drops his tea spoon to the ground, where it immediately turns into the best cat-toy of all times, bar none, at least as far as Tom and Howard are concerned. Santiago remains on Porthos’ belly, lovingly clawing into his sweater. “What did you do?”

“It was itchy,” Aramis explains sulkily, flopping into the armchair with dramatic abandon after leaning his crutches against the coffee table. “So I shaved it off.”

His beard. Is gone. Porthos takes a deep breath, which causes Santiago to rise about two inches and purr contentedly. “Did you give yourself a haircut, too?”

Aramis shrugs and wriggles deeper into the armchair, somehow looking more naked than usual without his facial hair. “I’ve been doing it for years - it’s no big deal.”

Oh, but it _is_. He looks so young. Porthos’ protective urges rocket up into the sky and vanish into the atmosphere with a dramatic pinging noise.

Athos, apparently in a trance, comes over from the kitchen to have a better look at this clean-shaven prince, abandoning his tea-spoon to the kittens, possibly forever. He crouches down in front of the armchair and reaches up to cup Aramis’ right cheek, strokes his thumb over the soft skin.

Aramis blushes.

Over on the couch Porthos dies a little. He wants to snuggle them kind of bad right now.

“Don’t you like it?” Aramis whispers, voice so soft and breathy that Porthos experiences strong tendencies to just get up and ravish him right there in the armchair. Aramis’ tone of voice is also somewhat indicative of an inherent awareness that Athos likes his new look very much indeed, and might just beat Porthos to the ravishing.

“You look very nice,” Athos says accordingly. He’s not drawling at all. Aramis blushes a little more. Porthos looks from one to the other and digs his toes into the squishy leather of the couch to keep himself from getting up. He wants to see how this plays out first.

“Do you feel better now?” Athos asks, still caressing Aramis’ skin in a gentle, instinctive manner that does pleasurable things to Porthos’ heart. In the background Tom and Howard play the teaspoon back and forth across the hardwood floor, ringing gently as they go.

“A little,” Aramis sighs. “I still feel itchy all over. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s never been this bad.”

Porthos frowns. Aramis had a slight fever and headaches the previous day, but the expected flu didn’t make an appearance. Which is a relief, of course. A broken leg is bad enough - Aramis certainly doesn’t deserve to suffer even more.

Athos hums in sympathy and lifts his hand off Aramis’ cheek to card his fingers through his hair instead. Aramis closes his eyes and leans into his touch, sighing, and Porthos grabs his phone off the coffee table to snatch a picture. He’s started making a collage to give to Aramis and Athos for Christmas, a huge undertaking enthusiastically supervised by any and all inhabitants of the orphanage, including the Captain.

Athos continues caressing Aramis, gazing at him with the suggestion of a smile on his face, then he frowns. “You are rather spotty, Aramis.”

Aramis groans. “I know. I told you it’s never been this bad.”

“No,” Athos says, drawing the word out, sounding uncertain. “I mean - this does not look like it was caused by the weather change. The distribution is too even.”

Porthos’ eyebrows collide on his forehead and he grabs Santiago off his belly, dumps him on the couch cushion next to him, earning himself an indignant honking noise. He joins Athos in front of Aramis half a heartbeat later, performs a close-up scan of his skin.

Athos is right. Aramis has spots all over his face and arms, and a few on his chest and back as well. Porthos bites his lip. “Kitten, I think you have the chickenpox.”

Aramis stares at him, looking aghast. “No.”

Porthos smiles faintly. “Trust me, pumpkin, I know what I’m talkin’ about. My kids get it all the time.”

“But I had it already!” Aramis exclaims, trying to squint down at his own torso. “My Mom loves telling the story of her suffering when I contracted it at the tender age of two, and was unwilling to wear any clothes at all for two weeks straight.”

Porthos nods slowly. “You can get it twice if you’re very young for the first time.”

Aramis groans and collapses in his seat. “Splendid. Why not just shoot me and get it over with.”

Porthos chuckles. “Aw, come on. It’s not that bad.”

Beside him Athos is studying his phone, has obviously googled the problem. “This says that chickenpox can be dangerous for adults.”

Aramis slumps in his chair even more. “Of course it can.”

Athos looks rather alarmed. “Should we take him to the emergency room?”

“No, we should not,” Porthos soothes him. “Look at him - he’s fine. You can take him to the doctor on Monday.”

“But what if it gets worse?” Athos demands, still with that frantic look in his eyes, shoving his phone in Porthos’ face so he can read the list of risks as well. “Shouldn’t we make sure that he -”

“He had it once already, Athos,” Porthos says, taking his phone from him. “He’s fine.”

“I’m not fine,” Aramis pouts. “I’m itchy. It’s in my cast, Porthos - in my _cast_!”

“Then we’ll have to distract you somehow, hm?” Porthos murmurs, leaning in to brush a kiss to his lips. “What do you think about that?”

Aramis’ pout turns into a happy little smile, then he hastily pulls back. “What if I infect you?”

“We had it,” Porthos soothes him, reaching up to cup Aramis’ cheek. “Both of us. At the same time.”

Aramis is back to pouting. “Well that obviously didn’t save me.”

“We were seven,” Athos says, tilting his head in recollection. “Were we not?”

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Porthos nods. “Want me to call your Mom to make sure?”

Athos nods, so Porthos retreats to call the Countess and very probably get another beautiful flower arrangement out of it. The one for Aramis’ broken leg is still standing on the couch table, showing first signs of wilting.

He’s not worried about Aramis at all, which is good. Knowing Athos he’ll do more than enough worrying for the both of them. He always does.


	2. Chapter 2

When Porthos ends his call with the Countess, Athos has transferred Aramis onto the sofa, rubbed soothing cream on all of Aramis’ spots, brought him a cup of tea, and plied him with cookies. Porthos is relieved that he hasn’t flown in a specialist yet. But the day is still young. It might yet happen.

Where Athos is now Porthos has no idea. Either the bathroom, or staking out the nearest pharmacy to be the first in line when it opens on Monday morning. Because he would.

“Feeling a little better?” he asks, joining Aramis on the couch, and leans forward to grab a red marker off the couch table and draw a little heart on Aramis’ cast. It’s already a masterpiece, adorned with flowers and well-wishes and a unicorn chasing a dragon. Teddy’s drawing skills are truly remarkable. Athos’ nieces have expressed a strong desire to meet him.

It’s rather unfortunate that Porthos won’t be able to take Aramis to the orphanage with him until he’s better. It’s always so very lovely to see him with the kids. He’s just so good with them.

“The cream helps,” Aramis sighs and slumps sideways and into Porthos, scrunches up his nose. “But it still itches.”

He’s still wearing nothing but his sweatpants, adamantly refused any and all additional clothing, and Porthos thinks he might have an inkling how Aramis’ Mom must have felt all those years ago. He just hopes Aramis won’t take to parading around the apartment naked. Athos can be quite sensitive in that regard. Porthos grins and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ mouth, brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Want me to distract you?”

Aramis smiles back at him, flirty and carefree. “If it’s not too much of a hassle.”

“Oh, I like this new look of yours far too much,” Porthos whispers, giving him another kiss, reveling in the smoothness of it. “It’s no hassle at all.”

So he pulls Aramis into his arms and claims his mouth, closes his eyes and licks inside. Aramis tastes like sugar and spice, and Porthos hums appreciatively. This is just what he’s been craving. This is precisely what he wanted. Minus the spots, _maybe_. Aramis looks cute with them. He always does.

Porthos buries his fingers in Aramis’ hair and holds him close, toys with the idea of pulling Aramis between his legs and -

“You have got to be joking.”

\- this is of course the moment when Athos returns from the bathroom.

Porthos sighs and breaks the kiss, looks up at Athos’ unimpressed face while Aramis grumbles and cuddles closer to him. “What?”

“What,” Athos echoes, expression and voice exasperated. “He is _sick_ , Porthos.”

Porthos rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m makin’ him feel all better - am I not, kitten?”

“Very,” Aramis agrees immediately. “I want to kiss Athos too though.” He sounds adorably pouty.

“Can hardly blame you for that,” Porthos purrs, winking at him. “Want me to catch him for you?”

Aramis giggles.

“Will you two stop acting like this is a game,” Athos demands, sounding wonderfully dramatic. “This is a serious matter and you -” Porthos gets up from the couch and squares his shoulders, and Athos falters, looks endearingly alarmed. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?” Porthos asks, grinning. “I’m not doin’ anythin’.” He inches closer to Athos, who promptly takes a step back and falls over Howard who has come to find out what all the fuss is about.

Howard wails, Athos shrieks, and Porthos lunges, pulls him up and into his arms at the last moment. Stunned silence follows.

“See,” Athos says then, still breathless, trying to free himself from Porthos’ grasp, “this is what happens when you -”

Porthos picks him up and carries him over to the couch where he delivers him into Aramis’ waiting arms like an especially grumpy teddy bear. “I know you’re worried, love,” he says, ruffling Athos’ already ruffled hair, “but Aramis is _fine_ , trust me. I’m a specialist when it comes to chickenpox. The kids get it all the time.”

Athos sighs and pulls up his shoulders, tries to keep his frown in place when Aramis kisses him on the cheek. “Yes. Well. I prefer to be safe.”

“I am,” Aramis whispers into his ear. “Please kiss me.”

Athos melts like a snowflake in July. Porthos has never seen anything like it. Athos’ eyes go soft and his expression turns helpless, and then he’s kissing Aramis, sweet and easy, all but pressing into his arms.

Porthos huffs. Typical. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and watches them for a moment, watches Athos lose himself in the way Aramis touches him, completely relaxed. He loves how it’s always so easy between these two, how Athos never tenses under Aramis’ touches, how he’s always so very ready to give Aramis all the affection he needs.

But the fact of the matter is that Porthos would like to receive some affection as well. So he joins Aramis and Athos on the couch, sits down beside Athos and pushes into him, earns himself a surprised little moan that slays him on the spot. He closes his eyes and _breathes_ , enjoys how warm Athos is between him and Aramis, slings his arms around Athos’ middle and holds him tight.

He doesn’t care that the weather forecast has announced more snow, that the sky is no longer blue and endless outside their windows. Athos is in his arms, pliant and comfortable, and that’s all that matters. He strokes his hands over Athos’ belly as Athos and Aramis continue to kiss, enjoys all the little noises they make, the soft gasps and blissful little moans.

Porthos resists as long as he can, but in the end he turns Athos around in his arms and claims his mouth for himself, can no longer hold back and merely listen. Athos doesn’t seem to mind. He puts his arms around Porthos’ neck and melts into him, kisses him back right away.

It kills Porthos a little, makes him ball his hands into fists in an effort to hold himself back - until Aramis takes one of his hands and gently coaxes it open, links their fingers and gives him a comforting squeeze. It distracts Porthos just enough to relax into what he’s doing, to just kiss Athos, and not worry about going too far.

He smiles into the kiss, suddenly, giddy with exhilaration, and gently nibs on Athos’ bottom lip, teases a surprised gasp out of him. “See,” he murmurs against Athos’ mouth. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Athos says hoarsely, and makes him.


	3. Chapter 3

Outside the sky is darkening. Clouds span the horizon, grey and heavy with snow, blocking the midday sun. Porthos doesn’t care. Athos is kissing him, has pushed him against the backrest of the couch and climbed into his lap, insistent and greedy.

Aramis doesn’t seem to mind that they’re neglecting him. If anything he appears to be thrilled by this development, keeps kissing Porthos’ neck and touching his shoulder, nothing but supportive.

Porthos loves it. He keeps his eyes closed and focusses on Athos and Athos alone - how warm he is in his arms, how good it feels to kiss him like this. It’s comfortable and familiar, and for once Porthos doesn’t worry about going too far - about wanting too much. He can’t when Athos is on top of him, cupping his cheeks, hands warm and steady on his face.

It’s obvious that Athos is enjoying himself, and that’s enough for Porthos, makes him lean back and relax - makes him happy. He can hear Aramis taking picture after picture beside them, envisions him biting his lip as he watches them, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. Porthos just hopes it’s enough to distract him from his discomfort. It’s rather difficult to stop kissing Athos now that he’s started.

In the end Athos is the one to pull back first. He sighs and straightens, strokes his fingers over Porthos’ cheeks and up into his hair, cards them through his curls. “You’re a menace.” He sounds soft despite the accusation, and Porthos opens his eyes to find him smiling, smiles back quite automatically.

“It was for a good cause,” he argues, his voice a little rough. He’ll never get used to having Athos in his lap - will never get used to being kissed by him, to the idea that Athos might have the occasional impure thought about him. For as long as Porthos can remember, Athos was always by his side, but never like this - never in a way that made him taste his heartbeat in his throat.

Porthos turns his head to the side to look at Aramis, needs something safe to rest his eyes on, and encounters a dreamy gaze, happy and enraptured. “Worked rather well if I may say so myself.” He knows that Athos is looking at Aramis as well now - that he can see how very well they managed to distract their lover, how much he approves.

Porthos is a little surprised when Athos leans to the side to kiss Aramis again, but he still holds on to his hips and keeps him steady, makes sure he doesn’t slide off to fall on top of their injured hero. It’s not quite how Porthos expected his cuddles to go, but in a way it’s better - so wonderfully warm and comfortable despite Aramis’ unexpected illness and Athos’ worry.

“I’m gonna go and make lunch, eh?” he murmurs after a moment, gently helps Athos off his lap and deposits him into Aramis’ arms, where he belongs. “You keep entertainin’ each other.”

They look up at him with matching expressions when he stands up: grateful and soft, full of longing. Then Athos frowns. “No.”

Porthos blinks. “No?”

“You stay with Aramis,” Athos says. “I will make lunch.”

“Athos,” Porthos says carefully. “You know I love you - but you’re crap at cookin'.”

Athos lifts his nose. Aramis clears his throat. “How about I make my Dad’s Mac and Cheese? It’s really easy and doesn’t take all that long either.”

“You’re supposed to rest,” Porthos reminds him. “Seriously guys, just let me -”

“No,” Athos interrupts him. “You’re always the one cooking for us. Let us take care of you just this once.”

“But I like cookin’!” Porthos exclaims, no idea where this is coming from all of a sudden. “Or are you sick of my food by now - is that it?”

“No, that is not it,” Athos grumbles, getting up from the couch. “Will you please sit back down and let me handle it.”

Porthos opens his mouth and closes it again when he feels Aramis pulling on the hem on his pullover. “I can give him my Dad’s recipe,” he suggests. “It’s fool-proof.”

“You two are just full of trust in my cooking abilities, are you not,” Athos drawls.

Porthos lifts one brow and sits back down on the couch. “I’ve got _experience_ with your cookin’ abilities, love. That’s different.”

Athos huffs, but he allows Aramis to send the recipe to his phone, and marches off towards the pantry to assemble all the ingredients he needs. Porthos can’t help but follow him with his eyes, pouting ever so slightly.

Aramis takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “It’s my turn to distract you, hm?”

Porthos turns his head to look at him, a vague sense of guilt blossoming in his chest. “Eh, sorry pumpkin. It’s just -”

“He’s really not that bad,” Aramis whispers, pulling him close. “We did just fine when we made those honey cakes for you. All he needs is clear instructions.”

Porthos, remembering the state of the kitchen after that particular adventure, winces, and Aramis grins. “I declare he’d be even better if you let him hone his skills a little more often.”

There is that, of course. Still. Porthos doesn’t like this. He enjoys providing for his loved-ones. It feels weird to just sit around and do nothing while - oh. Porthos grimaces. No wonder Athos calls him overbearing on a regular basis. He’s about to speak up and apologize for monopolizing the kitchen for the last twenty years when Aramis twitches next to him, bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut.

Porthos clears his throat. “Where does it itch?”

“Everywhere,” Aramis moans, sounding horrified, “but especially in my cast.”

Porthos promptly pulls him into his lap. “Come here.” He runs his hands over Aramis’ back and up into his hair, looks up into Aramis’ eyes. “I’m really sorry that you have to deal with everything at once, kitten.”

“Ah, it’s okay,” Aramis smiles, putting on a brave front. “My leg doesn’t hurt anymore, and a bit of itching I can deal with.” He shimmies on Porthos’ lap, makes himself more comfortable, and sighs. “What I’d really like to know is where I even _got_ the chickenpox.”

“Probably the hospital,” Porthos muses. “Or one of the people who were around at the site of the accident - maybe even the pretty lady with the flower name.”

Aramis sighs and leans his forehead against Porthos’ chest. “That would absolutely serve me right.”

Porthos pinches his bottom, makes him squeal. “No, it wouldn’t. Shut up.”

Aramis mutters something incomprehensible and fidgets on Porthos’ lap, trying to get comfortable once more. Porthos can feel Athos judging them from over by the kitchen unit and gives Aramis a hug, kisses his earlobe. “Sorry, kitten.”

“It’s okay,” Aramis whispers into his ear. “I like how you’re always protecting me and make sure I don’t tear myself down. It’s sweet.” He shimmies a little. “That hurt a bit though.”

Porthos promptly strokes his bottom and earns himself a sigh. “That’s better, thank you.”

“You were supposed to _kiss_ ,” Athos tells them in an exasperated voice. “Am I supposed to feel vindication about the fact that you are as inefficient at your job as I am at mine?”

Porthos closes his eyes, silently counts to five. “Need help with the sauce?”

Athos’ reply is instant. “Most definitely.”

Porthos sighs, and Aramis giggles, strokes along his arm when he helps him off his lap and puts a cushion under his broken leg. “Not quite how you expected this day to go, hm?”

“Not quite,” Porthos agrees, leaning over him to brush their mouths together. “Still. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Because as long as he’s got them, he’s fine. Absolutely perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time evening rolls around it’s snowing again. Porthos keeps neglecting his book to stare out the window, entranced by the tumbling snowflakes, admiring the shade of the sky. It’s somewhere between blue and grey, the sun invisible but not sunken below the horizon yet, achieving an almost eerie atmosphere.

Porthos sighs and picks his book back up, stretches his neck. Aramis has retreated to the guest room to work, despite the fact it’s a Sunday, and Porthos is grumpy. He understands that Aramis has to work - that this is an exceptional situation and Constance already searching for someone to help out in addition to d’Artagnan, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He works too much himself not to cherish his weekends.

He’s still surprised when Athos sits down next to him and takes his book away. “What now?”

“You are looking a bit morose,” Athos says, smiling ever so faintly. “Were you lying when you assured Aramis that you had received sufficient cuddles to last you till bedtime?”

Porthos huffs and rakes his fingers through his curls. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” Athos replies gently. “Aramis is not the only one available for cuddles, you know.”

Porthos blinks at him. “Is this the weather doin’ this? Ever since it turned cold, you’ve been remarkably snuggly, love.”

“Yes, and you have done absolutely nothing about it,” Athos points out. “Why is that?”

“Stop askin’ me that,” Porthos mumbles, just for Athos to take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

“I made you nervous again, did I not?” He sounds intrigued and far from disgruntled, and Porthos looks down at their hands, at the contrasting skin-tones. They’ve always been so different, and by rights they shouldn’t even fit, yet Porthos can’t imagine his life without Athos in it.

“Yeah,” he admits. “A bit.”

“One would think I was the one with all the experience,” Athos drawls, stroking his thumb over the back of Porthos’ hand, “and you the shrinking violet.”

“As far as kissin’ you goes, I have very little experience,” Porthos points out. “You don’t expect me to treat you like everyone else, do you?”

Athos sighs. “You make me feel rather peculiar when you talk like that. Would you mind going to bed a little early tonight?” He looks up into Porthos’ eyes, smiles. “I think I want to explore.”

The words alone make Porthos go hot all over. “Explore what, precisely?”

“You,” Athos replies, voice low and smooth. “What else?”

 

Porthos is ridiculously nervous. He’s taken a shower before bed, has scrubbed every inch of his skin, brushed his teeth and gargled mouthwash until his eyes watered. He can’t remember being ever this flustered by a partner, not even his first. But then again he never had this much to lose.

Aramis and Athos are waiting for him in the bedroom when he steps through the door - Athos diligently covering Aramis’ spots with cream once more. Aramis is lying on the right side of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs - and his cast, of course - while Athos has slipped into his usual pyjama bottoms … but no top.

Seeing him half naked throws Porthos off even more, and he freezes in the doorframe for a moment, closes the door just in time before one of the kittens sneaks into the room with him. They’ve tried letting the cats sleep with them, but the idea is always much more comfortable than the reality.

Athos looks up when the door lock clicks shut, smirks when he sees Porthos’ expression. “And here I thought your shower would relax you.”

Porthos lifts his chin. “You makin’ fun of me?”

“In the most loving manner imaginable,” Athos says, smirk softening into a smile.

Porthos looks over at Aramis. “You let him talk to me like that?”

“You are so _cute_ ,” Aramis breathes, eyes sparkling. He’s sitting up, arms stretched out behind him to take his weight, and his youthful appearance hits Porthos all over again, makes him feel pleasantly tingly. “I love this.”

Athos looks impossibly smug when Porthos returns his gaze to him. “There you have it. Now come to bed.”

Porthos grunts and does as he’s told, which feels weird, but unavoidable. The room is warm, so he doesn’t mind that Athos asks him to forgo his pyjama bottoms tonight, slips into the middle of the bed wearing nothing but boxers. Athos doesn’t waste any time, slides up next to him right away … strokes his hand over Porthos’ chest.

It feels intimate and exciting and ridiculously good, and Porthos closes his eyes, holds his breath. Next to him, Aramis sighs. “I wish I could tape this.”

“I am not stopping you,” Athos drawls.

Porthos is beginning to wonder if he was taken by fairies and replaced with a changeling. He’s certainly naughty enough. “You’ll do nothin’ of the sort.”

“Of course I won’t,” Aramis scoffs. “I just wish I could. For posterity's sake.”

Athos drags one fingertip over Porthos’ left nipple, and Porthos shivers, bunches the sheets in both hands. “Oh wow.” His voice doesn’t sound like himself, soft and raspy, betrays him right away.

So of course Athos does it again. Porthos’ cock takes interest, just like that, and Porthos squeezes his eyes shut, can’t believe this is happening to him. All his experience seems to have vanished out the window and into the snow now that Athos is the one touching him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Athos whispers into his ear, and Porthos very nearly whimpers. Then Aramis takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, just like he did this afternoon, and everything feels a little lighter, a little easier.

“Gorgeous,” Athos repeats, “and sweet.” He brushes a kiss to Porthos’ cheek, strokes his palm over Porthos’ chest and down his abs, rests it just above his waistband. “May I?”

“Yeah,” Porthos gets out, wants Athos to touch him like burning. He feels so young suddenly, as if he’s never been touched before, and it’s _amazing_. He wonders if this is what Aramis feels like all the time - if it always feels this fresh and new to him, always this exciting.

He bites down on his bottom lip when Athos puts his hand on him, tries to hold down a moan and doesn’t altogether succeed.

“Don’t do that,” Athos tells him. “Don’t hold back.”

That forces a breathless laugh out of Porthos, and he throws his arm across his eyes, hides his burning face. “You don’t want me to let go.”

“Yes,” Athos says softly. “I do. I am not afraid of you, Porthos. I never was.”

He makes his point by giving Porthos’ cock an insistent little squeeze, and Porthos nearly chokes on another moan. “Oh God, love, you’re killin’ me.”

Athos retaliates by moving closer to him, by pulling Porthos’ shorts under his ass - exposing him. The bedside lamp casts a soft warm glow over the room … over Porthos’ rapidly rising chest, his growing erection.

“I like looking at you,” Athos whispers, strokes his hand over Porthos’ skin, upwards this time, draws circles around his navel. “I like touching you.”

Next to them Aramis bites down on his knuckles and groans, and Porthos laughs again, just as breathless as before. “You’re killin’ the kitten, too.”

“I like to do things properly,” Athos drawls, trailing his fingertips back and forth over Porthos’ abdomen. “You also deserve some form of compensation after your Sunday turned out so very differently from what you imagined.” He licks his lips, tilts his head in a contemplating manner. “What do you say, Aramis - would you enjoy watching me suck him off?”

Porthos could stop him. Could tell him that he doesn’t have to do this - that they can cuddle, like they always do, and leave it at that. But this was Athos’ idea. He took the initiative, because he loves Porthos, and - hopefully - because he wants to.

So Porthos isn’t going to stop him. For once in his life Porthos is going to lean back and let things progress unrestricted. He’d be a fool for interfering.

**Author's Note:**

> You can thank QuestionableSanity for the chickenpox, and me for giving it to Aramis while wearing a cast. Hohoho, ahem.


End file.
